P.S.W.
He knew those letters.
He had seen them in an old parts manual in their barn.
He raised his hand.
“One eighty!”
The scrap dealer frowned.
The auctioneer pointed at him.
“Do I hear one ninety?”
The scrap dealer looked at the crates again.
Then at the skinny boy.
He shrugged.
No.
The auctioneer began the count.
“One eighty once.”
The boy’s father stared ahead.
“One eighty twice.”
The older farmer in overalls laughed.
“Most expensive rust in the county.”
Several men joined him.
The auctioneer slammed his hand against the side of the truck.
“Sold for one hundred eighty dollars.”
The boy let out a breath.
His father did not.
For several seconds neither spoke.
Then his father said:
“You have three dollars and forty cents left.”
The boy nodded.
“I know.”
“Your mother is going to ask me why I let you do this.”
“You didn’t.”
“That will not improve the conversation.”
The boy looked toward the crates.
His father looked too.
Nine hundred rusted circles.
Some bent.
Some cracked.
Many coated in reddish corrosion.
A few so badly pitted their original markings were nearly invisible.
The father rubbed one hand across his face.
“What have you done?”
The boy answered honestly.
“I think I bought something.”
His father stared at him.
“I can see that.”
“No.”
The boy’s eyes moved toward the third crate.
“I mean I think I bought something people still need.”
The older farmer had heard him.
He walked over.
He was in his late fifties, broad through the stomach and chest, with a weathered red face, gray stubble, and a green seed-company cap.
He looked into the nearest crate.
Then at the boy.
“You think those are treasure?”
The boy said nothing.
The farmer picked up a plate.
Rust flaked onto his glove.
He tossed it lightly from one hand to the other.
“Know what these are?”
“Yes.”
“Planter plates.”
“Yes.”
“Old planter plates.”
“Yes.”
“For planters people stopped using because Eisenhower was president.”
“Some people still use them.”
The farmer laughed.
“Some people still use outhouses too.”
Men nearby chuckled.
The boy lowered his eyes toward the plate.
The older farmer mistook that for embarrassment.
He kicked the side of one crate.
Metal crashed together.
Several plates slid out and fell into the dirt.
The boy’s father stepped forward.
“That’s enough.”
The farmer raised both hands.
“Easy.”
He bent, picked up one plate, and tossed it toward the boy.
The boy caught it awkwardly against his chest.
“Hundred eighty dollars,” the farmer said. “For nine hundred pieces of scrap. Your daddy ought to take your money away.”
The boy looked at the plate.
Rust covered most of the markings.
He rubbed it hard with his sleeve.
A number appeared.
24-C.
He turned it over.
Prairie Standard Works.
His heartbeat increased.
The older farmer said:
“See something magical?”
The boy looked up.
“You sold me plates.”
“So?”
“You never asked what machines they fit.”
More laughter.
The older farmer kicked another crate.
“They fit the junk pile, kid.”
“That’s why nobody wanted them.”
The boy did not answer.
Because a pickup truck had just braked beside the equipment yard.